


More Than Survive

by MandyPrintz



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-23
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-15 04:18:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15404796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MandyPrintz/pseuds/MandyPrintz
Summary: High school is hard enough as it is, and with a sensitivity to electricity you haven't quite learned to control yet you might as well slap the loser label on your forehead yourself. All you want to do is survive your senior year of high school unscathed, but then, as he seems to do, Miles Luna just had to jump in and change things up, didn't he?





	1. Chapter 1

It has been documented on multiple accounts that some people are far more gifted with the elements than others. Historians trace evidence back thousands of years of children who can control fire, prisoners tunneling free of their cells with no explainable tools, and so on. One more recent example could be the story of the University of Florida swimmer who was disqualified from competing due to the suspicious water currents that surrounded his lane at the national semifinals and put him at an unfair advantage. Although hundreds of accounts of this anomaly exist, no one has yet been able to identify what exactly it is that causes it. Some claim it’s genetics, some say it’s a random occurrence, and some conspiracy theorists have even begun to claim that the afflicted people are ‘the chosen ones,’ new prophets of whatever deity they happen to worship. Mostly, however, they’re just regarded as freaks or losers and are ridiculed into keeping their peculiarities a secret from their peers. 

As a kid, when your sock-static-shocks punched harder than most and your temper tantrums flickered the lights, your classmates thought it was the coolest thing. In middle school, you were so nervous for your first kiss that you shocked the boy so hard he spread a rumor that you bit him. The weeks to follow were so humiliating in the eyes of a 13-year-old that your relationship with electricity has never really been the same. Of course through trial, error, and pure accident in most cases, you never stopped learning the extent of your so-called gifts, but in order to avoid another incident like your first kiss, you ended up more isolated than ever. 

For the most part, you had absolutely no problem with this, until now, your senior year. Or, rather, you’re _still_  perfectly fine with playing it safe and keeping to your small group of three (Maggie, a self proclaimed hot-head with a sensitivity to fire, and Cole, who has no sensitivity other than his love for Anime) but Maggie, who is willing to drag you along with her, has bigger plans for climbing the social ladder.

“Come on!” She shouts, little arms flailing wildly at the lunch table, “It’ll be fun! You know we’re all just dying for a break from this fluorescent lit hell.”

“Maggie!” You warn, “starting a _fire_  is not the way to get us out of class.” 

She pouts at you angrily, “I’m not saying I’m gonna light the whole school up. Just a little flame in the trash bin to get the alarms going, get us all out of next period for twenty or so minutes.” Her attention turns to the mop of curls that plops down next to you with a loud plastic clatter from his tray. “Cole! Tell her it would be fun!”

“It’ll be fun,” Cole mumbles around his mouthful of pizza. “What is it that’ll be fun again, Mags?”

“She wants to light the school on fire,” you drone, as if you haven’t had this conversation with them countless times before. 

They both shout their responses simultaneously. Maggie’s, “ _Not the whole school_ ,” rising higher pitched above Cole’s, “Maggie we’ve been _over this_.” 

The argument carries on over the entire lunch break, as it usually does. She brings this up at least once every two weeks, somehow thinking that if she gets the student body an extra half hour of lunch, she’ll suddenly be the most loved student in the senior class. 

“Mags, I love you, I do, but you’re the only kid in school who’s _openly_  pyrosensitive, so yeah, everyone will assume it was you, but that does no good when you end up suspended anyway.” You explain as you eat. 

“Then why don’t you do something?” Cole questions. While he isn’t as hell bent on popularity as Maggie is, he’s always been one to play devil’s advocate. “Aside from your family, we’re the only two who know you’re electrosensitive. You could surge something! Power goes out, that’s more than just a small delay. That’s the rest of the day off at the very least, if not tomorrow too, since it’s Thursday now.” 

Your glare says enough, but for that extra intensity, you add a sharp, “no!”

The bell rings just as Cole shrugs with a defeated, “can’t say I didn’t try,” sending students scampering off to their fourth period class. You and Maggie wave goodbye to Cole when he heads down through the academic doors and the two of you that are left head to the PE Wing. 

Twenty minutes into gym class, you’ve managed to stand in line for the rope climb for all of them. It’s ridiculous, honestly, that the rope climb is even a part of the physical education program. Not only is it an asinine test of upper body and core strength, it’s also humiliating to be put on the spot like that and fail to perform, not to mention that the forty minutes of class spent waiting in line to do so could be used on actual exercise. Yet here you wait, arms crossed and feet firmly planted in one spot, watching the ass belonging to star quarterback Blaine Gibson steadily climb to the top. 

“At least we’ve got a view while we wait, eh?” Maggie jokes, elbowing your side tauntingly. 

“Oh please,” you scoff, bringing your arms in tighter to your chest, “if Horrible Heather caught us staring at her boyfriend like this she’d have our heads.” 

“True,” she agrees, “good thing she’s not in this class then.”

“She always has her ways of knowing, though. You know how this high school shit works.” The line collectively steps forward as Blaine drops off the rope with a cocky smile, high fiving the instructor and his buddies in line behind him. Your eyes are glued to his best friend and partner in crime, Miles Luna, as he steps up to the rope, cracking joke after joke to pull attention from the fact that he _definitely_  can’t climb this rope. “Besides, you know he’s not really my type anyway.” 

“Oh jeez,” she laughs loudly, covering her mouth to muffle it. “I can’t believe I forgot about your cliche crush on popular Luna, little miss quiet girl next door.”

“ _I'm_  cliche?” You can’t help but scoff. “You’re the one ogling the quarterback like this is some kind of teen rom com.” 

“Guilty! But at least mine is purely an aesthetic attraction. Gibson’s got a good hiney, what can I say?”

“Whatever...but I still don’t think you could call this a crush, I just-”

The wind is knocked from your chest as Miles turns abruptly and runs straight into you in an attempt to escape the coach’s hard stare. The two of you tumble to the ground, a mess of limbs and a one sided fit of giggles on his end. 

“I’m _so_  sorry,” he laughs rapidly, hopping to his feet and offering a hand to help you up as well. 

You look at his outstretched hand, red in the face, trying your hardest to ignore the titters and whispers from your other classmates.You immediately let your nerves get the best of you, your pulse rushing and your palms sweating, you look around the room frantically at the snickering faces of your peers and then up Miles’. He’s laughing too, but not at you, and he mutters, “hey, ignore those hyenas. They’ll find something new to laugh at in ten minutes anyway. You okay?” 

“Oh,” you stutter your response and take his hand, “y-yeah, no harm no foul.” 

You can hear the blood rushing in your ears as he pulls you up, only for your hand to slip from his, sending you stumbling back down to the ground with a hard thud. This time, the laughter of your classmates is outright and pointed, and you clamp your eyes shut, burying your face in your knees and trying to block them out. 

It’s too much, your heart racing too fast, the all too familiar tingling in your fingertips when you can’t control yourself. A collective gasp following a sparking sound forces you to open your eyes. The string of lights directly above you flickers independently of the others, and when you scramble to help yourself up and run to the locker rooms, each string of lights goes out with a harsh pop as you pass under it. 

Maggie’s light footfalls follow quickly, and before the gym doors slam behind you, you can hear Miles’ voice shouting, “hey, wait! It’s okay!”

He’s just being polite, you’re sure of it.

 

And the next day at school, when Miles waves at you from across the hall and jogs to catch up, greeting you with a bright smile, surely he’s just being polite then, too. 

“I am really sorry about yesterday, by the way.” He says, turning to walk backwards toward your first class. “I was just _wildly_  unprepared for that rope and wasn't watching where I was going.”

“You’re...it's fine,” you shrug, “stuff happens.”

“You’re not wrong,” he smiles wider, pointing at you as he does. Your fingertips tingle when his actions bring a flush to your face. “But hey, I gotta get to first hour before the bell. See you in PE...where I promise I won't plow you over this time.”

You give a wave before your turn into your first period class, your heart racing, a flash of light jolting between your fingers. 

This becomes a routine over the following weeks. Miles finds you in the hall, walks you to class, and cracks some cheesy one liner before running off to his own, often tripping over another student in his rush. Maggie takes notice, prodding your side every time she catches a smile on your face when Miles is around. Hell, everyone takes notice. You try to ignore the other students whispering behind you as you walk, but it's hard to miss. During lunch period a few weeks after the rope climb incident, Maggie is talking wildly with her hands about her latest animation project when the empty seat next to her is suddenly taken up by Miles.

“Hey,” you greet warily, a bit thrown off by his seat choice. 

He waves to the group, giving that goofy smile. “Hey (Y/N), Maggie. Sup man, I'm Miles, dig your shirt.”

Cole looks down at his Kill la Kill t-shirt, replying only with, “thanks dude.” 

“So did your usual posse find out you’re a weeb and deem you too lame to be seen with?” You tease. 

“Lady I'll have you know I exiled myself from their table today,” he mocks offense, gesturing wildly to the end of the cafeteria where he usually sits. “Blaine and Heather are having another weird argument and people are taking sides and it's just a mess. Thought I'd hang out with someone who might actually be good company.” 

Maggie pipes up this time, “ah, so when you found Barb and Trevor too busy sucking face you decided the loser table was your place to be.” 

Miles groans, “I like you guys! Even him, the one I just met! It's not about who’s more popular or who I want to be seen with, I came over here because you’re my friends too.” 

“Okay, Mr. Rogers,” you patronize, laughing and teaching across the table to pat his shoulder. 

When the final bell rings for lunch, Maggie stands with a purpose. “Alright kiddos, have fun in gym. Mama’s got an early release pass to go to the dentist.” She flips a double bird before she walks away. 

“Yeah keep bragging about that, we’ve already bribed your mom to film you post-procedure!” Cole calls after, turning to high five you with wide eyes. 

On your walk to the locker rooms, Miles shares a few high fives of his own with passing students. Some you recognize, others not, all of them shouting some variation of his last name. 

“So how did you bribe her _mother_?” He asks casually, halfway down the hall. 

You shrug, “when you're friends with someone long enough, you just might learn that their mom has a certain weakness for chocolates you can only get in the UK.” 

He quirks an eyebrow, “and you just so happen to have access to British candy?” 

“Cole may or may not have made some friends in London on the junior trip last year who he sends cheetos in exchange for chocolate.” You stop at the door to the girls lockers. 

Miles keeps walking but shakes his head, “I think I misjudged you. You’ve got a devious mind in there.” 

“Go change, asshole, I’ll see you in class.”

Ten minutes later, after the usual stretches and laps around the gym, the coach is calling for a pair-up for tennis. With Maggie gone and nobody else in the class but Miles, you look around awkwardly, shifting from one foot to the other as people immediately pair up with their friends in the class. You look over to Miles, expecting him to be buddied up with Blaine already, but he’s patting Blaine on the back with one hand and pointing over to another student you don't recognize with the other, leaning in to whisper something to him. Blaine nods, jogging over to the other kid to partner up, leaving Miles to head your way with a warning of, “you're not getting rid of me that easily.” 

While you wait your turn outside by the tennis court, you ask how he got in with the football team and friends anyway. If he isn't an athlete himself it really doesn't make sense, especially in your school where cliques are almost as bad as the schools in teen drama movies. He shrugs it off, claiming he’s never been a huge fan of cliques. Much like Maggie and yourself, he says that he and Blaine were friends in kindergarten, long before Blaine bulked up and girls were interested in him. When Blaine got popular Miles just happened to be dragged along for the ride. “Plus,” Miles adds, “who needs the football team for popularity when you have an award winning personality like this?” 

You roll your eyes and scoff in response, perking up when you hear your names being called to the courts. The whispers as you pass your fellow students is unmistakable, even more  pointed than usual. Ever since your first incident in gym class with the lights, the student body has not been able to drop it. Some bolder bully types spoke out against you, loud and proud, claiming it was only a matter of time that your secret came out, since your partner in crime was proudly and openly pyrosensitive. Others chose to hide their words behind a hand and hushed tones, but their distaste was still as clear as ever. 

“Everyone off the fence!” A voice from the crowd shouts out, “Sparky’s up to bat! She could volt it up at any moment!”

You can feel the strain on your knuckles as you clutch the tennis racket tightly in your fist, the cool air biting your nose as you inhale deeply in an attempt to bite your tongue. 

“Hey,” Miles’ voice in your ear startles you, but his tone is soothing, “ignore them. All you need to focus on right now is kicking Blaine and KT’s sorry asses at tennis.”

“Oh,” you chuckle, “they’re on.”

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

The voices in high school can be cruel. It’s been said before and it will continue to be said countless times after this. It’s obvious in the forming of cliques, in the rivalry between Athlete and Mathlete, in the casting out of anyone who is different than those who make it to ‘popularity.’

For the most part you were able to stay under the radar, become more of a nothing than a something to be teased.  That is, until your first slip up in gym class, when your embarrassment from a simple spill manifested itself in your electrosensitivity that you spent so many years hiding. 

Now, when you walk the halls you’re met with harsh mumbles of, “Zap! Zap! Zap!” When you approach your locker, anyone within five feet of it jump back from their own, slamming the doors and shouting out in fear that you’ll conduct through the metal. Walking through the lunch line with Maggie puts you face to face with jests about freaks attracting freaks and blatant assumptions that you’re on the path to super villainy because clearly, you’re so evil for having a sensitivity. 

Anything shouted your way is easy to escape. Sure, some comments cut deeper than others, but at the end of the day they’re just words, and dealing with those words is so much easier when you’ve got Maggie, Cole, and Miles in your corner. 

As always, Miles walks with you and Maggie to the locker rooms between lunch and gym, goofing off the entire walk. You part ways, giggling at his most recent joke, and head in to get changed. When you reach your locker, the laugh on your lips is cut immediately short, the air being knocked from your lungs at the sight of your locker door. 

“Oh, babe…” Maggie sighs, trying to jump in between you and the sloppy permanent marker defacing the door. “Hey,” she coos, “Don’t pay that any mind, it’s just kids being dicks.” 

“Yeah Mags, they’re just being dicks,” you agree, crossing your arms tightly over your chest, “but they’re being dicks to a _person_! I can’t help that I’m a freak, okay?” You shout exasperatedly, flinging your hands in the air and pointing to each respective name on the door. As you do, you can feel the familiar tingle in your fingertips, a crackling in your eardrums that rivals any migraine, the already dim light above you flickering with each harsh point, “I have no control over the fact that I’m a _volt head_  or a _wizard_  or a freak of nature, or everyone’s favorite name, _sparky_! I was _fine_  for years, nobody had a single problem with me until this came out and I’m sick of it! Let coach Murphy know I went home sick, I’m over this.” 

You can hear her try to call after you, and part of you wants to turn around because you know none of this is her fault, but she’s been under scrutiny since eighth grade for her pyrosensitivity, she’s used to this by now, and you need some time to yourself to stew in it and be pissed. 

You know you can’t actually go home, your parents would freak at you skipping, but you know you need some time away from that damn school before you accidentally cause a _real_  scene, something far more dangerous than a few busted light bulbs.

A short, mindless drive leads you to a tiny, nearly abandoned mall the next town over. Somewhere to clear your head without fear of running into anyone who shouldn’t see you skipping class. When you park, your phone is littered with concerned text messages. You assure Maggie that you aren’t mad AT her, just mad, and shove your phone back in your pocket, sighing as you walk into the decrepit mall. 

Almost as soon as you set foot inside, your phone springs to life in your pocket again, vibrating in an unfamiliar ring pattern. Confused, you pull it back out to see that Miles is calling you on the messenger app, only to confuse you further. 

“Uh, hello?” You answer, tentatively. 

“(Y/N)!” He shouts, the sound crackling in the bad reception, “I overheard Maggie tell coach you went home sick and I wanted to check in. You seemed cool at lunch, are you okay?” 

“Yeah, I’m good Miles,” you say, shaking your head. “I just needed to get out of there. Shouldn’t you be in class?” 

The lack of concern is clear in his voice when he says, “Probably.” He continues, his tone softening. “But I had to check. I uh, I was pretty concerned.” 

“Well, I’m alive and well, so you can get back to team sports week,” you chuckle half heartedly. 

He scoffs on the other end of the line, “obviously, the two day high school soccer league is so much more important than taking care of my friend.” 

“Miles we both know that you need all the credit in that class you can get after the rope climb, let’s be honest.” You pause for a moment as you both laugh lightly, “but if you insist on finding a reason to ditch, I ended up out at the old Plaza Mall and I’ll probably be here killing time for a while. Wouldn’t hurt to have some company I suppose.” 

“Say no more,” he says seriously, “I’ll be there before you know it.” 

You hang up with a sigh, unable to fight the smile that’s creeping onto your face. You want to be upset still, and a part of you definitely is, but with Miles around, it’s hard to dwell on the negative. 

You’re picking at the edges of a soft pretzel in the food court when he slides into the booth beside you, leaning his head on your shoulder and snatching the pretzel from the tray in front of you. 

“Hey!” You protest, laughing. 

“Oh like you were going to eat that whole thing by yourself,” he mumbles around a full mouth. 

“You’re not _wrong_  but still!” You chuckle, “I was actually about to start walking around, so you’ve got good timing.” 

“Well, then lead the way!” He says, standing and gesturing down the hallway. 

As you walk, you make small talk about how few stores are left in the mall, comment on the display mannequins that are falling apart, and in general, goof off as is common with Miles. He eventually asked you what pushed you over the edge, after he was sure you weren’t going to burst into tears at the mention of it, and you reluctantly tell him, still biting back the sting. You have to convince him to not make a scene the next day at school, his friendly demeanor jumping instantly to something more protective as soon as the words leave your lips, but you know his public defense of you is only going to make matters worse for him. 

Browsing used DVDs in the FYE plastered with STORE CLOSING! EVERYTHING MUST GO! sale signs he shrugs and mumbles, “They’re not all bad, you know.” 

“What?” You ask, holding up a water stained Wiggles DVD case, “these classic movie deals?” 

Miles laughs, snatching the box from your hand and burying it under a stack of old black and white films, “God _no_ ,” he shudders, “I meant the kids. Everyone else at school. I know that the shitty people are a lot louder than everyone else, but I promise that the ones being shitty are the minority here.” 

“I know,” you sigh, giving a weak shrug of your own, “I’m just getting tired of it, and don’t get me wrong, I love your company, and I’m really glad to have gotten to know you I just...feel guilty.” 

He snorts, “for what?” 

Waving to the cashier as you pass back out the door into the mall, you shake your head. “I can’t imagine hanging around a freak like me is helping your popularity by proximity.” 

“Do you think I care about that shit?” Miles laughs for a moment too long at that, stopping you in your tracks and standing in front of you to grab your shoulders. “I could _not_  care less about what Heather and her cronies think of me. Anyone who’s willing to treat my friend like crap? Not worth my time.” 

“But…” you brush his hands off your shoulders and push past him towards the sad arcade comprised of mostly claw machines. “Blaine has been your best friend for years. Surely you care what he thinks.” 

“Yeah, I do,” he states flatly, “but he doesn’t give two shits about any of this.” 

You have half a mind to drop the issue, but there’s an uneasy feeling in the back of your mind that urges you to push back. “I find that extremely hard to believe,” you mumble. 

“No, honest!” Miles defends, “look, Blaine is a dense motherfucker, but he’s a really good dude. The only thing he’s ever said about any of this is that he’s jealous I found someone prettier than him to hang out with.” 

Heat creeps up your neck, and you turn away before the flush can reach your cheeks. You laugh, “yeah, alright.” 

“You don’t have to believe me,” his voice is a lot closer now, and when you look up into the machine in front of you, you meet his eyes in the mirrored backdrop. He’s looking over your shoulder, smiling kindly, “but just know that you’ve got friends in high places, and when all of this dies down, and the awful, awful girls that seem to run the school find someone new to torment, we’ll still be here.” 

You smile gently, “thank you, Miles. For everything.”

“Anything to get me out of gym,” he quips, flashing a broader smile of his own before jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the photo booth down the hall, “now how about a souvenir?”

“I thought you would never ask,” you joke, elbowing him in the ribs before jogging over to the machine, shouting, “race you there!” 

You can’t help the giggle that escapes at his shout of, “unfair advantage,” as you run for it, quickly being passed by Miles as he runs at full speed. You both fall into the bench seat laughing, breathless, and grinning like fools. 

Yeah, the hurtful words are easy to ignore when you’ve got Maggie, Cole, and especially Miles in your corner. 


	3. Chapter 3

Friday morning homeroom began much more ominously than usual, the instructor smiling darkly as he paced the front of the classroom with a stack of papers in hand. He kept the act up for far longer than expected, until from beside you, Maggie pipes up. 

“Mr. T what’s up with the Riverdale vibe? Just give us the pop quiz already!” 

Sighing, the teacher deflates, “Margaret you know I can’t give you pop quizzes, this is a study hall period.” 

“Then what’s in your arms?” Another student from the back of the class calls. 

“Pass these back through the rows,” he says flatly, mumbling something about trying to make it fun. 

When the papers reach you and Maggie, you grab one and hand the stack to the student behind you, turning back around to see the bold, too-fancy script at the top of the page. 

**PROM COURT NOMINEES**

It’s your turn to roll your eyes, looking over to Maggie and expecting to see the same bored expression mirrored on her face. When instead, you see her quirked eyebrow and smirk, your own expression falls. 

“What is that face for?” You ask cautiously, “What did you do?” 

“I didn’t do anything, my friend, but I would take a gander at that list if I were you.” 

Scanning your eyes down the page, nothing seems out of the ordinary to you, all the same names that have been on every homecoming court ballot since freshman year. You start to mumble the names to yourself as you read through them, “Barbara Dunkelman, not surprising, Heather -  duh, are you surprised by Lindsay Tuggey? She’s been on these since she and Michael became official...oh.” 

Landing on the second to last name on the list, your heart jolts. Seeing your own name on this list would be enough to make any other high school girl swoon, but as soon as you see it you are filled with dread. What kind of cruel joke could this be the start to? 

“Maggie did you have something to do with this?” You ask, despite her previous denial. 

“Cross my heart no I didn’t,” she says, mimicking the action as she says it.    
“Student Government handles the nominations. Maybe ask squeaky clean class VP Gallian? I know he said they were doing it differently this year.” 

You scoff, avoiding your own name as you scribble your votes for Michael and Lindsay. “How so?” 

“He mentioned something about nominating people in pairs, which would make sense why Michael who absolutely hates popularity contests no matter how well liked he is, is on there.” 

“Yeah but that doesn’t mean shit for me,” you argue, looking back down at the list, eyes landing on Miles’ name in the King column. 

“Hey,” she says softly, “you gotta admit you and Miles have been pretty buddy-buddy lately, and if someone were to nominate him, they would need to find a running mate for him since he isn’t openly dating anyone.” 

“It’s still hard to believe they would pick me here. Look around, people at this school literally FEAR me. At least he and Mariel have that M&Ms comedy segment on the school news station. Or Yssa! She runs the art club with him! Either of them would make more sense than me.” 

“Yeah but Mariel was already guaranteed to be paired with Tyler Coe, which she was, and Yssa is new this semester, nobody knows her well enough to nominate her. I would just enjoy it,” Maggie says, circling your name and Miles’ way more obvious than necessary. “Maybe it’ll help cut down on the shit people are throwing your way.” 

You nod thoughtfully as your response, listening up as the teacher begins collecting the papers back and talking about the upcoming basketball pep rally. 

Strolling the halls between classes, you start to notice what Maggie meant. Students who you knew of but never really interacted with before made it a point to congratulate you for making the list. Kerry, one of Miles’ friends waves you over from one side just to mention that he voted for you and Miles. Jon Risinger, the go-to lead for every theater club production, makes a pit stop at your desk on the way back to his own the following period. 

“Saw that you got paired with Miles for prom royalty,” he flashes you a stunning smile, “Thought it was really cool to see a new name up there.” 

“Hey, thanks,” you say through a nervous laugh. “If I’m being honest, I’m surprised you didn’t make it on the list.” 

“Oh believe me,” he jokes, “if Riot were still here on exchange, we would blow everyone’s ass out of the water, let's be honest. But because my counterpart, sadly, moved back across the pond, I didn’t have anyone to run with.” 

“Well, you would have had my vote,” you respond, “and you both would have made a striking picture in your matching tuxes.” 

“She really would have worn a suit to prom, too,” Jon says dreamily, dramatically looking off into the distance. The warning bell rings and he hops up to make it to his seat, calling over his shoulder, “you guys got my vote!” 

At lunch, the piercing stares from the other side of the cafeteria are even worse than usual. The buzz surrounding Blaine and Heather’s usual group of friends manages to keep their attention away from you, as person after person makes their way over to congratulate them on their nomination and their eventual win. 

When Miles throws his tray down next to yours and sits next to you with a wild grin, you know you’re not quite sure what to expect.  

“My queen!” He shouts dramatically, tossing his arm around your shoulder and roughly pulling you into his side, both of you laughing. He kisses your temple with a loud, fake sound, “how’s it going, chick?” 

“I’m no queen,” you laugh, rolling your eyes and pushing him off your shoulder. “Did you have anything to do with the nomination?” 

“Not at all,” he says, waving the comment off, “you’re just the only girl willing to put up with me long enough that anyone will think we’re a pair.”

“Well, be prepared to lose since I’m your counterpart,” you joke. 

“Doesn’t matter if I win,” Miles says, matter-of-factly, “as long as I still get to call you my queen!” 

Maggie narrows her eyes at you both, dropping the fork she was once bringing to her mouth. “There goes my appetite. Y’all are gross, I’m out.” 

The pair of you waves daintily as she throws out her tray and heads for the locker rooms early. 

Over the next week, you’re forced to spend your afternoons shopping for a prom dress too late in the season. When your mother heard that you, a teen so hell-bent against school dances that you were originally going to skip your own prom, were nominated for queen and therefore required to go, she practically threw you a party. Now, the weekend before prom, you’re at your wit's end trying to find something you like when the racks are picked clean. 

On Saturday, your mother drags you and Maggie into the city and out of the comfort of your tiny suburban JC Penny and Macy’s. You’re overwhelmed by all the options, browsing the racks of bright colors, heavy jeweled bodices, and dramatic cutouts, making fun of dress after dress with your best friend, pointing out that each one she pulls out to poke fun at is _exactly_  something that Heather and her pack of mean girls would wear. 

Eventually, the sales girl has acquired enough hangers to set you up with a dressing room, and when you’ve decided there couldn’t possibly be any more racks to look through, you make your way to try on what you’ve got. 

One by one, you rule out the dresses in the fitting room. Too puffy, too low cut, way uglier than it was on the hanger, and so on, each dress had something wrong with it that you just had to pick apart. While you step into the last option and Maggie helps do up the zip, you can hear your mom asking the sales girl for recommendations for nearby stores that you can go to next, despite her adoring every other dress you’ve tried on so far. Maggie pats your shoulders to let you know that you’re all done up, and you turn to look in the mirror in the dressing room before you leave the room. 

The deep sapphire satin hugs your torso close, flowing into a fuller skirt at your natural waist, the only embellishments on the dress being the small rhinestone and pearl pattern along the sweetheart neckline with a beaded belt to match. Adjusting the off the shoulder straps to lay in a more flattering way, you smile over at your best friend and gather the skirt in your hands to walk out of the dressing room, announcing, “Ma, that won’t be necessary, this one’s it.” 

Between the excited cooing and teary compliments from your mother, Maggie’s proud comments, and your own excitement in how much you love this dress, you almost don’t hear your phone ringing in your purse. The sales associate hears it and points it out, and you manage to catch it just before the call ends. 

You take note of Miles’ name on screen before you answer, “hey nerd, what’s up?” 

“Hey!” He shouts over a commotion on his end, “did you find a dress yet?” 

“Great timing! I just decided on one! Why?” 

“Well, I’m at the place to rent my tux and I wanted to know what color you’re wearing?” He asks as if he’s unsure of his own question. 

You’re reluctant to answer but tell him. “It’s like, royal blue? I think that’s what you would call it. Once again, why?” 

“So we can match silly!” He states, plain as day. “I don’t want to be the only guy in there who doesn’t match his -- oh.” 

His sudden cut off draws a laugh from you, and you urge him on, “oh?” 

“I never actually, you know, uh...well I never asked you if you would go to prom with me.” 

You can feel your heart skip a beat, your ears ringing. “Oh.” 

“Yeah,” he groans. “So I know I’m way late, and this is definitely the lamest promposal in history, but what do you say? I would be honored if you agreed to go with me. Like not as my prom court counterpart, not as a group thing, just...the two of us. As my date?” 

You laugh, catching you mom, Maggie, and even the sales girl looking at you with interest. Waving your hand in the air to get them to disperse, you answer, “Miles I would love to be your date to the prom.” 

He shouts a quick, “sick!” Continuing on with another apology, “I promise I’ll make up for the lame ask with a kickass night. See you Monday?” 

“See you Monday.”

Monday, with prom less than a week away, and graduation not long after, the whole school is buzzing with excitement. Hallway conversations you overhear are all about hair appointments, nail appointments, how great everyone’s shoes are, how excited everyone is, and while you’re admittedly a little more excited now than you were before, you still can’t help but laugh at just how dramatic everyone else is about it. 

Since your nomination, you’ve seen a steady decline in the name-calling and harassment from most everyone. There are still stragglers, some girls higher up on the social food chain who can only express nothing but distaste for you, Maggie, and a few other students who had since stepped forward with their sensitivities, but for the most part, you’ve gone back to being just what you’d wanted, a normal, unnoticed student (if not a little more widely known than before). 

Before heading to your car after school on Friday afternoon, you realize you left your keys in your gym locker, and separate from the pack of your friends to go get them, telling Maggie and Cole you’ll meet them at your usual ice cream stand a little later than usual. The locker room is a lot louder than usual, with the girls' soccer team and cheer squad both getting ready for practice. You manage to make it to your locker relatively unnoticed and get your keys, but before you turn to leave something catches your attention. 

On the other side of the wall of lockers two voices, one clearly Heather’s, rise above the racket in the room. 

“Do you think that freak _really_  stands a chance against _you_  for prom queen? Do you really need to do this?” 

Stifling your gasp, you press yourself against the lockers in an attempt to not be seen. Luckily there was nobody in your immediate area, but you don’t want anyone passing to see you and rat you out. 

Heather scoffs, slamming a locker door, “I’m not saying she’s going to win, I’m just saying we should have a plan if the entire school collectively takes a mental shit and makes it happen.” 

“But…” the other voice sighs, “I get it, you’ve wanted prom queen since you were a kid, but-” 

“But nothing, bitch, I deserve that crown and if she even so much as TRIES to take it from me, she deserves every last sickeningly sweet drop of white-hot revenge I’ve got up my sleeve.” 

The other voice is even more unsure than ever, simply sighing, “HEATHER.” 

“Listen, either you’re with me, and you’ll convince your cousin’s band to let us borrow their coldspark machine, or we’ll find some other way to do it without you and you’ll be out of our group for good. The world needs to go back to fearing people like her and if we can rain down on the stage with sparks as she wins, that’s certainly a step in the right direction.” 

“What about Miles?” 

“Ha! How do you think we get her to fake win in the first place? Then after the whole school sees the dirt we’ve got on both of them, Blaine and I will take our rightful crowns for ourselves.” 

Your throat is burning, you hear the other voice speaking up again, but the words are muffled and far away. You squeeze your eyes shut, the static fogging your brain, sparks dancing back and forth between your fingers. The last thing you want to do is lose control here and blow your cover, so before anything else can happen, you bail. Luckily, you manage to make it to your car before letting out the first frustrated wail, pounding on your steering wheel until it hurts too much to continue. Of course, it was all too good to be true. He might not be the athletic type and he may put on a good face but Miles Luna is still in with the same crowd and his true colors couldn’t be hidden for long. 

Before you drive home, you send a quick text to Miles with no other explanation. 

_About prom tomorrow. Have fun, I won’t be going._


End file.
